Get Out Alive
by CuttlefishNo.5
Summary: Tragic NetCan fic set in an alternate HetaOni-type setting. Character Death, Angst, the works.
1. Chapter 1 The End

Part One- The End

Breathing heavily, Canada presses himself up against the wall, listening.

Nothing. Good.

Cautiously, he peeks around the corner.

"No…" He stares, horrified. _No. No this can't be happening there's been some mistake that's not him it can't be this isn't happening where's Spain he was supposed to be here why isn't anyone here this isn't happening it's not it can't be I'm seeing things this can't be happening not now not to me no no no no NO!_

He takes a step forward.

"H-Holland?" He asks hesitantly. He's closer to him now, there's no denying the identity of the man sprawled against the wall of the maze like some discarded toy, no matter how desperately he wants to.

Dull amber eyes open slowly, painfully.

"Canada…"

As he speaks Canada can see the jagged tear across his throat. It makes him sick. He kneels in front of his friend, trying to find words, but they don't come.

"No time for goodbyes, konijnte." He whispers, "If you want t' get out alive… you hafta run…"

"No. No I won't." He shakes his head, blinking the tears out of his eyes. "You can't _die_ Holland! I-I need you, you can't leave me, not here, not like this! Please!" He's not even trying to hide his sobs now, as he wraps his arms around the older nation and buries his face in the blood soaked scarf.

"I'm sorry. Mejn leifde, I'm so sorry."

"No. Please." He sobs. He can't seem to stop repeating himself now, like a broken record.

Canada draws back slightly, wiping the blood off his cheek. Holland's eyes are half closed now, unfocused.

"Please. _Lars_." Holland's human name feels rough and strange on his tongue, foreign. "Lars." He whispers as he kisses the dying nation. He tastes like copper and salt, blood and tears.

And fear.

He tastes like that, too.

He tries to ignore it.

He tries to ignore the last breath on his cheek, he tries to ignore the way Holland's lips go slack against his own, tries to ignore the sudden yawning emptiness inside his chest.

He tries to ignore these things.

But he can't.

Realization worms its way into his mind, despite his best efforts to keep it out. It's like black oil, seeping into everything and leaving it sluggish and suffocated. He doesn't even have the willpower to panic as he hears heavy steps approaching. All he can do is wrap his arms tighter around Holland, as if by some miracle he might come back, if only Canada were to hold him close enough.

It's the Thing, of course. It stands in the middle of the corridor and stares at him balefully with eyes like smoked glass.

He rises and faces it, feeling very small and lost standing there in an unfamiliar, terrifying place, covered in his lover's blood. He wipes the back of his hand under his eye, smearing blood and tears across his cheek.

"What do you even want?" He asks, his voice shaking, "Why are you doing this to us?"

The Thing doesn't respond.

"Why?" he screams, "_Why?_"

It moves towards him. He stands his ground, his whole body shaking now.

_Because,_ something whispers, _it makes me happy._


	2. Chapter 2 Blood Like Leaves

Part Two- Blood like Leaves

He's been walking for hours now. Not with any real direction in mind, just walking.

Moving.

Running.

The blood on his face begins to itch as it dries, and he rubs at it, feeling it flake off his skin and fall to the ground like red maple leaves in the autumn.

Finally, he finds them, the rest of them.

Denmark paces back and forth impatiently.

Iceland sits glumly with his back up against the wall.

America is trying to get a signal on his cell phone.

Spain won't meet his eyes.

He shuffles into their midst, eyes fixed on the ground just in front of his feet.

"Canada!" America jumps up and walks over to him. "There you are! We were all getting worried about you." He notices the dried blood crusted over his brother's face and neck and steps back, "Whoa. Somethin' happen? You okay?"

"No. No I'm not okay why would you even think I would be _okay_?" Canada snaps back.

"Are you hurt somewhere? Did you run into the Thing? You really shouldn't go off on your own you know, you should stick with me, 'cause I'm the hero!"

He wants to punch someone. Hit them, kick them, he doesn't care. He wants to make someone else hurt like he's hurting now.

"No you're not!" he cries, "You're not a hero you're just useless! If you were really a hero you'd have saved him! 'Cause that's what heroes do, isn't it? They save people! Right? _Right?_ They save people!"

Everyone's eyes are on him now, shocked. Canada doesn't yell. He whispers. Quietly. He never yells.

"You're useless! All of you! He's _dead_! Holland's _dead_ and you didn't even realize it! I thought you promised we wouldn't leave anyone behind! You promised! He shouldn't have been alone, there was supposed to be someone with him! Why did you leave him _alone_, godammit?"

"Canada…" Denmark places a concerned hand on his shoulder, he shrugs it off.

"Shut up Dan. All of you, just…shut up." He curls up where two walls come together to make a corner, drawing himself up into it as far as possible, burying his face in his arms, trying to disappear.

No one moves.


	3. Chapter 3 Memories

**A/N: **Screw linear storytelling!*sigh* Yea, there's a big gap between this part and the last... I might go back and fill it in later...maybe...

...I blame the plot bunnies. It's all their fault.

But this is my favorite chapter out of all of them. XD

Part Three- Memories

It's said that, on the night their nation died, everyone in the Netherlands had bad dreams.

Canada can see it of their faces as he walks through 'S Gravenhauge, the country's second capitol. They haven't been sleeping well. He passes by small groups, clustered together on the street, whispering. They haven't quite realized what exactly has changed, but they know, in the way people often do, that _something_ is different. Bits of conversations escape the hushed confines of the groups and brush against his ears.

"What happened?"

"…haven't heard anything."

"There wasn't anything on the news, but…"

"…someone died? Someone important…"

"What happened?"

"What happened?"

What happened? Everywhere he goes, people ask the same question. He wishes he had an answer for them.

Three times. Three times he walks up to the door. Twice, he walks away.

The third time, standing there with his hand on the doorknob, he asks himself what he's waiting for. What is he expecting to find behind this door? Is he expecting to walk in and find Holland sitting on the couch, reading the newspaper and drinking coffee like nothing has happened? Is he expecting him to look up at the sound of the door opening and smile?

He nearly walks away then. He knows what he's been waiting for.

Because as long as that door stays shut, there's still one tiny, irrational spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, Holland is inside, living and breathing and most empathetically _not dead_.

He opens the door.

That last spark of hope wavers and dies.

The house is dark and empty. A thick layer of dust, too thick for the short time they've been gone, coats the floor and sparse furnishings and throws up golden sparks as he walks across the room.

God, this place is so full of memories. They crowd around him like hungry children, grasping at his face and clothes, whispering in his ear. He shuts his eyes tight against them and wraps his arms around himself.

How many times? He wonders.

How many times does he have to say goodbye?

A white rabbit lies on the table, gathering dust. A white rabbit in a pink dress. A child's toy.

"Miffy…" He whispers, picking her up gently and wiping the dust from her worn, threadbare coat. Holland was always trying to teach him her real name, but he could never pronounce it. So he calls her Miffy. She comes with him as he moves reluctantly onto the next room.

Holland's room.

It's exactly as it was, exactly as he remembers it. Bed unmade, an orange jersey thrown angrily in the corner after That Game, the one he lost, a faded photograph on the nightstand.

It's a nice photograph, two brothers and a sister, Belgium, Netherlands, Luxembourg. The two older siblings have their flags over their shoulders, smiling. They have the same smile, Canada realizes, the same "I'm-high-off-adrenaline-right-now-so-let's-go-do-something-fun" kind of expression.

Lux stares haughtily at the camera, standing between his older siblings, his dark hair in stark contrast to their blond.

Canada watches the photograph for a moment, then moves on.

The bed squeaks as he sits down on it. _Funny, it never did that before…_ Everything smells like Holland here, like water and sky and smoke. Like tulips.

God, this place is so full of memories.

_"Matthew?"_

_ The sound of his human name pulls him from sleep, unexpected. _

_ "Yes?"_

_ Holland reaches out and grabs him by the wrist, pulling him closer._

_ "Matthew…don't leave. Please, don't ever leave me."_

_ "I… I won't, why would I want to leave?"_

_ "Everyone leaves." Holland answers, his already troubled eyes growing darker, "Bel, and Lux, and Indie, everyone always leaves. They said they wouldn't, but they did. They all left."_

_ "Lars," He whispers, reaching out with his free hand to touch the other nation's face, "I'll stay. I promise. I'll stay with you."_

"I kept my promise, didn't I?" He asks the empty room, tears seeping out from beneath the hands that cover his face, "I kept my promise, I stayed."


	4. Chapter 4 Last Time

**A/N**: FFFFF... Long time no see guys, I know. Sorry 'bout that. My Muse and I haven't really been on speaking terms lately... And this chapter was REALLY HARD to write. I don't know why, but it just didn't...flow as nicely as the others. But I wanted to get _something_ up. So here you go.

Part Four- Last Time

It hadn't seemed so big, last time.

Of course, a lot of things had been different last time.

_Holland had been there, complaining about having his busy schedule disturbed to come look at some "stupid woodshed" followed by Denmark groaning that he was "no fun anymore" and that he "seriously needed to get a life." At this, Holland pointed out that, unlike _some people_, he actually got work done sometimes, and it just went downhill from there until Canada interrupted to ask if they were going in or not._

This time it's just him.

Just him and an old grey house surrounded by trees that move when they ought not to.

Not that he wants to be here. _That_ was entirely America's fault. His brother had shown up outside his window a few hours ago, demanding that he "stop moping for two seconds and get out here." When he got outside, he was prodded and cajoled into the car, and America started driving. He's still not quite sure how America had convinced him to get _out_ of the car, but here he is.

_"I'm not going in there again."_

_ "Look, France and England both agreed it would be good for you. I mean, all you've done since we got out is mope around in Europe! _Something_ needs to happen."_

_ "Like what?"_

_ "Weeelll… hadn't really gotten that far yet…"_

Impulsive and badly thought-out. Yep, definitely America's fault. Still, he had given him his pistol, fully loaded, so that showed a bit of foresight._ Not that it'd been very useful last time…_

He shivers and turns towards the door. They stare at each other for a while, the nation and the strange house.

_it pulls you...pulls you in...and you know something's coming for you...but there's nothing you can do..._

He should leave. He knows, he should leave. But at the same time...

_Just do it. _A voice in his head says, _Get it over with_

The door opens silently, which is even more unnerving than the expected creak of old wood and hinges. Nothing about this place is as it should be. Beyond the door of the small house is a vast maze of stone walls that glow an unnatural, sickly color.

_"Okay…This is getting creepy. Maybe we should start heading back." America suggests nervously from where he's been hanging at the back of the group. Five heads turn towards Canada with silent questions in their eyes. _Well?_ They say,_ This was your idea in the first place, do you want to leave or not?

_ "Mm-mm" he shrugs, "We can always come back later, I guess." There are nods of agreement all around, and the group turns and begins walking back the way it came._

This, he decides, is when the nightmare begins.

_ They come to where two passageways cross at right angles, forming a T. _

_ They stop._

_ They look at each other._

_ They silently hope that not everyone is thinking the same thing they are._

Which way? Which way did we come from?

He's walking by himself now, though he can still hear remembered fragments of the conversation they had been having drifting through his mind. It had been one of those wandering, aimless conversations which have no real point but to pass the time and interact with people whose company you enjoy. It had been fun.

How quickly everything had changed.

_They walked until they got hungry. Conversation had died out with the realization that they were lost, only resurfacing for brief moments when they couldn't decide which side of a fork to take, or to ask what time it was. It became something of a game, to see who could hold out longest without asking America to check his phone._

_ It was about 10:42 when they stopped. They sat with their backs against the walls, three to a side, facing each other. Iceland sat down first, with Denmark next to him. That was to be expected, the Nordics always stuck together. Canada and Holland sat opposite them, and Spain tried to sit next to Holland, but the blond nation sent him a blistering glare and moved to the other side of Canada. This left America to sit next to Denmark, which he did so, grudgingly. Holland sighed and leaned his head on Canada's shoulder, who reached up to stroke his hair. Around them, people were trying to get comfortable on the cold ground, hoping sleep would distract them from their hunger. _

It's the smell that he notices first. The musty smell of old wood and paper, so different from the cold stone of the rest of the maze. He's been plodding along with his hands stuck deep in his pockets, staring at the ground but not really seeing anything, but now he stops and looks up, towards the smell. To his left is a room full of dead birds.


End file.
